


A Waking Dream

by faorism



Series: Indexed Revolutions [1]
Category: Arthurian Mythology & Adaptations - All Media Types, Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-10
Updated: 2010-08-10
Packaged: 2017-10-11 00:47:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/106380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faorism/pseuds/faorism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Arthur not only prepares his acceptance speech using a multitude of index cards, but does so while dutifully ignoring Merlin. (This, after all, is what <em>any</em> potential future President would do in his situation.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Waking Dream

**Author's Note:**

> _Pairing and Genre_: Arthur/Merlin. Slice of Life, Established Relationship.  
> _Notes_: Featuring Presidential Hopeful!Arthur and Progressive Activist!Merlin. No party alignments are identified, and there is nothing said that should be too politically controversial. Brief mentions of various characters as potentially holding Cabinet roles. Written for merlinxarthur's fanfiction challenge [01] (prompt: holding hands).

_Hope is a waking dream. —Aristotle._

-

With index cards scattered across the coffee table and five more caught between various fingers of his left hand, Arthur knew that not even the ever-present loftiness in his expression could persuade any passing person that he was calm. He was not agitated, per se, nor did he feel upset, distressed, melancholy or (as Merlin might expound to anyone within earshot) "prattish." No, nothing so... British-sounding troubled him.

Instead, a general unease filtered through him as he picked up a few cards and skimmed them before replacing them to their rightful spot on the tabletop. It could be said he felt this way because he should have had this draft done, at the very least, four weeks ago. Sure, he _had_ had one prepared, but after Morgana read both his concession and acceptance speeches, she threw a fit over how admittedly inferior the latter was and ordered him to pen another. "So unlike you," she had hissed in her haughty, i-breathe-the-world manner, "to accept defeat. Suck it up, Pendrake; the polls mean nothing until Election Day." She had then preceded to set fire to every printed copy of the draft (including those given to his closest of confidants), shred all his painfully handwritten index cards and notes, and even had the gall to hack his laptop and delete all electronic proof that the speech had ever been attempted.

He understood perfectly well that to write the great address she (as his (step-)sister and first choice for Press Sec) dearly wanted him to recite, he needed to start fresh; but still... that witch deserved to _burn_.

As his gaze settled on the card nestled between his fore and middle fingers (a neat _[**health care:** 19]_ written across the top), Arthur reminded himself that he chose to carry out this dreadful task. He could have listened to Gaius and had Geoffrey do what he was paid to do and write something up for Arthur. But despite what the old man said, something did not feel right about letting another person have responsibility over these two speeches: the speeches that either [a] welcomed him into the Oval Office or [b] doomed him to "Oh, he _could_ have been President" status for four years—and that's considering if he was _even_ given a chance to run again. Frowning at the thought, he knew he wouldn't—no, couldn't let Geoffrey do it for him, even if Gaius swore on his VP candidacy that it was common practice. If Arthur was to face the people, he would do so with his own words, whether or not he had won their vote.

And it was at this precise moment of determination that, after three hours of self-imposed isolation, The Great Interruption Of Arthur's Life decided to rear its head again with a sweeping "Well, don't you look the very picture of Noble Leader."

Arthur didn't even bother to acknowledge the distinctly accented comment as he saw a lithe form flop down next to him and onto the antique-or-at-least-very-expensive couch. He had half a mind to reprimand his companion for the action: the wind created by his movement had somehow managed to disrupt a pile of cards near the edge; but Arthur thought better of it. Fighting the right battles and all, and he was determined to carry out the punishment Merlin had earned for his latest insolence.

"Are you still not done yet?" Merlin teased, loosing his "formal" neckerchief so the fabric hung limp and wide around his neck. "Arthur. I know you can be slow sometimes, but this is just ridiculous."

Taking the time to pointedly not look at Merlin, Arthur rearranged three cards on the table (_[**education:** 21]_, _[**education:** 07]_, and _[**america is epic:** 40]_). He wondered briefly if he would remember the intricacies of his paper arrangement later, but he always did so he wasn't too concerned. (And if for whatever reason he did forget, there was now Merlin to blame for the lapse.)

Stillness hung between them peacefully until Merlin cracked a laugh. "Oh dear God. I have been in your presence for three minutes and you've yet to call me a moron or say something immeasurably rude about my ears. Someone call the presses: I think I've before me the first sign of the long-since prophesied apocalypse."

He tipped toward Arthur, chin on Arthur's shoulder and breathing warmly on Arthur's neck. Normally, Arthur would either shove Merlin and his gross neck-breathing away, or call the idiot an idiot and drop a kiss on his drawn, sweetheart lips. But Arthur had something to prove, and if he managed to withhold communications with Merlin for a full week, he could endure moist air beating insistently against his skin. He, after all, was still very upset with Merlin, and since yelling until he was pink in the face or declaring Merlin the "showiest, loudest, most annoying-est sentient being to have ever been sentient" had never worked in the past, perhaps this would teach Merlin some sort of lesson.

And it worked... for awhile. Merlin, realizing that neck-breathing wasn't going to get him what he wanted, turned his head to watch Arthur rotate the cards again and again and again around the coffee table. His eyes occasionally strayed to a troop of suits blazing pass or to the muted television screen tucked into an alcove showing the latest polls (Arthur, it appeared, was ahead in New York and Louisiana, but behind in Texas and Montana); though eventually, Merlin's attention would return to the movement of Arthur's quick, charismatic hands. (The obsession Merlin had with them worried Arthur a bit, having seen the collection of photos Merlin had taken featuring the pair; but the earnestness with which Merlin always touched—kissed—doted on Arthur's hands was more than enough to forgive the oddness of Merlin's fixation. Arthur _did_ have a Thing for dark-haired, blue-eyed progressive activists with knobby knees and scarily thin wrists, so he was probably not one to talk about another person's eccentricities in taste.)

The constant reaching and skimming and considering and dutifully ignoring Merlin made for an extremely engrossing pattern. He heard a melody in it: his fingers rubbing against each other, thumb hitting the table as he set a card down, Merlin's breathing heavy but crisp, and even the clicking steps of quick-moving men and women who didn't want to disturb Arthur. The subtle eloquence of the noise encouraged him to push forward, but even its simplicity felt rather intimidating for the work. The index cards before him had either notes for what he had to include or actual lines he planned to use. A serendipity of sounds that, when finally organized, finished and read, would be his _acceptance_ speech. Then, if he... won, it would not be a quotidian cacophony that filled his ears, but his own voice speaking out to a nation who needed him and the revolution he had promised to them throughout his campaign.

He soldiered on.

Eventually, the pair was interrupted by a sheepish page asking if they wanted something to eat. "No," Arthur said automatically; having found a groove, nothing—not even the dull sense that he hadn't eaten since midday and it was now about a quarter to ten—would stop him.

He was about to go straight back to his work, but felt Merlin stir beside him. In the most horrifying of impulses, his not-index-card-loaded hand fell down to Merlin's knee to keep him where he sat. Groaning internally (since Presidential candidates clearly do not groan aloud), he hazarded a peek at Merlin's—ugh—_smug_ face.

"I was shifting, dear." (How Merlin managed to make an endearment sound as if it were the foulest word he had ever spoken, Arthur did not know.) Merlin smiled to the page. "I already ate, but thank you, Owen. However, since I know Arthur as much as I know Arthur, I am certain he hasn't taken a meal yet. I doubt Arthur can stave off hunger for too long, so don't be surprised if we call on you for something in awhile."

Owen (who beamed at Merlin knowing his name) nodded and left.

Arthur stared at his hand on Merlin's knee, wondering what he was to do with it. Merlin surprised Arthur by making the choice for him: he laid his own hand over Arthur's as if it belonged there.

Probably satisfied that Arthur did not pull away, Merlin grew bold. "You know," he said in the most biting tone he could muster (in the end, he simply sounded frustratingly passive-aggressive), "you can save yourself the embarrassment of being a _grown man_ giving someone the silent treatment and tell me what I've done wrong before this officially becomes the dumbest thing you've ever done." He paused for good measure before adding, "And that's including meeting me."

Years ago, Arthur would have heard a challenge in Merlin's insistence. He would have perhaps glared an ugly glare, sneered an ugly sneer, and gone right back to ignoring Merlin. He would not have gotten anything done because of his anger but his pride would not allow him to walk away. The careful preparation he'd gotten through in the last few hours would have been mangled because of his pigheadedness. Years ago, he didn't have the experience of being with one partner for over a decade, and could not have understood what such a commitment entailed.

Okay, so the whole no-communication punishment? Upon reflection, it may not have been the smartest of ideas.

Not that Arthur would ever admit it.

Eyes lingering on his index cards, Arthur knew his speech was about to be put on hold in favor of dealing with (truly) The Great Interruption Of Arthur's Life. Throwing down the cards he still held as if they were a dueling gauntlet, he groaned, "Fine."

"Aw. Now was that so hard?"

"Obviously."

Merlin lips curved into a genuine smile as his thumb ran a lazy circuit around Arthur's knuckles. "Will you tell me what on Earth I did wrong?"

"What, you're not even going to try and guess?"

Merlin, being the utter fool that he was, actually took the question at _face level_, tilting his head as if in serious thought. "Well," he said, eyebrows knitting in concentration, "there's any number of reasons. Let's see... Recent offenses... I fell down at five of the last thirteen stops. I called you a prat in every one of my interviews, and I keep doing them despite you asking me not to. I still work with ACLU and NCSF and NTAC and NYAC and about three or four others even though everyone's telling me to tone down—but I told you that I would never abandon them to help your career; and seriously, I would not be able to even look at you if you dared asked me to. And I like looking at you and you like making me happy so it can't be that. Um. I dropped wine onto your pants at that one gala—that really, really wasn't my fault, though. I accidentally let on that you wanted Lance as your Chief of Staff; but everyone knew that so it's not that big of a deal. I said that your handwriting is much prettier than Mordred's, which is one of the top ten reasons you should be President instead of him. Then I said that Gaius Ford rolls off the tongue much better than Sylvester Alvarr, which is the number three reason he should be Vice President. Hm. I constantly wear neckerchiefs with formal and casual wear even though you think I look silly, and have single-handedly made neckerchiefs popular again so now you think everyone looks silly. I still have a bit of an accent... although you like my accent... and everyone likes my accent... and you know how it will devastate my mom if I were to lose it completely, and you like my mom. I told Morgana you sing show tunes in the shower. I told that one magazine you sing show tunes in the shower. I told that other magazine that you don't have a beard because it never grows out even. I told that other other magazine that you were getting fat because you spent all your time on your three BlackBerry's instead of running with me. I gave that other other other magazine a picture of you as a kid when Morgana put you into a dress and—"

That final line snapped Arthur from the stupor Merlin's completely unnecessary speech put him in. "You gave them that picture!"

"Of course I did," Merlin said as if Arthur hadn't had to endure a media frenzy in which he had to deny having any crossdressing tendencies, only to have to deftly defend his right to crossdress when Merlin gave him a harsh reprimand for the way he was handling the situation.

Arthur wasn't sure what he was about to say when a strange flash of emotion struck Merlin's features. When the hand still over Arthur's tightened around his fingers, Arthur questioned, "Merlin?"

"I told Freya not to tell you."

Arthur blinked once before he mirrored Merlin's frown, the gentle lightheartedness of the previous moments lost as he finally moved his hand from Merlin's knee. The irony of the setting (sitting in front of the makings of his acceptance speech) and the topic of the conversation was unfortunately not lost on him, and Arthur wished he had taken the opportunity to move them into a more private area for this conversation. At the very least, it must have gotten around that he was with his partner because no one had passed since Owen left them.

"Yes, well. She did. Just..."

Here Arthur felt the unease again. The unease he had felt for a week. The unease that had tempted him to call Merlin and that successfully kept him away. And all the while Arthur thought that Merlin's "offense" was just another one of his antics... but it wasn't. Not for Arthur. He had just under two months until millions upon millions of voters crammed into little boxes to press buttons—pull levers—make decisions that would change Arthur's life forever. And he wanted Merlin to... to...

"Yes?" Merlin's voice, controlled yet compassionate, brought Arthur into action. He stood up and walked away from the couch, his legs weak from his having sat for so long. Absently pacing the length of the coffee table, he ignored the idea of Morgana's demented howl destroying his eardrums if she were to find out he was arguing with Merlin when there could be eavesdroppers. Whatever. It didn't matter. He was upset and he was human and he didn't know what to do with his arms and hands, so he let them gesticulate accusingly as he spoke:

"I had specifically asked you to look over my concession speech because I wanted your opinion. Not Freya's opinion, Merlin, but yours. I understand that we are both busy men, and you were going to be especially busy this week, but to push the draft onto your assistant? Really? You know that I didn't need another person to read over it for grammar or punctuation or dramatics. I have Gaius and Morgana and Lance and even Geoffrey for that." A light flush burned Arthur's cheeks, ears and neck as he spoke, a seething stream of frustration hissing alongside his every inhale. Stupid Merlin. Stupid _idiot_ Merlin. And Merlin's placid expression, as if he knew a secret that Arthur didn't, only made Arthur more bitter than he already felt.

"No. I wanted my _partner_ to read the speech that could very well close an important era of my life! And yes, I noticed that you've been avoiding it since I've finished weeks ago but I thought that if I asked you _directly_... _politely_, you would be able to pencil me into your tight schedule." He stopped mid stride and locked eyes with Merlin. "Or... was that too much to ask?"

For an uncomplicated moment, the tableau held. There was Arthur, arms held akimbo and face burning with his temper and disappointment at Merlin's lack of consideration. There was the empty hall that was big enough to be an office, a muted television mostly hidden from view (the polls were back on: Arthur was ahead in Hawaii, behind in Wyoming, and there were conflicting reports from Florida). A smile on sweetheart lips, a neckerchief hung loose and wide and a couch that might be an antique. A table full of words and promises of a man who knew how to write a platitude about his defeat but not that of his victory.

Merlin might have laughed, he might not have—but it didn't matter because Arthur was too mad to care... but he did see Merlin's hand raise, palm turned up in invitation. Merlin's mouth moved and Arthur could have sworn he heard "You ass" and "My dear" and "Oh, Arthur" all at once, but what did break the air between them was a simple "Come here."

And moments before, Arthur would have fought Merlin, would have yelled and yelled and yelled... but there it was: the sight of Merlin's clever eyes bright like they were the dreary, rainy day Arthur met him—his gaze like an echo of sunlight.

So he crossed the space he put between them. He brought his hand up. It slid against Merlin's hand. Arthur's fingers caught Merlin's fingers; they locked together in the wholly uncomfortable manner that Merlin insisted was the only correct way to hold hands. "Arthur, I will never read your concession." Palm against palm. Wrist against wrist. "Nor will I ever hear it. This"—his eyes swoop down to the table of index cards before meeting Arthur again—"is the only speech I will hear and read and see and live. You will win."

Merlin's heartbeat against his flesh. "Oh?"

"Yeah." Merlin paused, concentrating on something Arthur couldn't see but could feel. "'There is nothing that I can say here that you do not know in the very core of your consciousness.'" Arthur recognized the words as his own, but from Merlin they sounded new: frozen in time: powerful. ...Destiny. "'In the past few years, decades, in the past month and century and day, the world has been transformed in ways our nation's forefathers could only have dreamed for us; yet even with all that humanity has accomplished, there are still great injustices we must face. Intolerance. Ignorance. Hate. We cannot realize the potential within each of us if we do not rid ourselves of these evils first.

"'But to do so, we can no longer accept the rigidity of yesteryear and the misguided fervor of a few.'" Merlin's grip, strong and tight. Skin against skin and the flush gone from Arthur's skin. "'I have run on a platform that said I will change Washington and invite discussion, but I am one man. To accomplish equality, we must stand together. We must grow as individuals; as a community. We must grow and love as a nation and only then will we have the America we seek.'

"This, from _[**america is epic:** 01]_."

Arthur didn't know exactly when he had sat down, but when Merlin's voice stopped, he found himself with his nose to Merlin's cheek, hip to his hip, foot next to foot. And because Arthur was, yes, a bit of a prat and never could deal with overwhelming affection the correct way, he bit, "You memorized it? You twit."

Merlin nodded, disrupting Arthur and causing his lips to glide against Merlin's jaw. "Just that one."

Another tableau formed. This time the coffee table and what laid on the its top were unimportant. The index cards were all there—with the lines Arthur had penned after hours upon hours upon days of concentration and the vague titles that never really encapsulated all that Arthur wanted to say—but still... unimportant to the scene. Everything Arthur could see if he turned away from Merlin was unimportant. Even Merlin and Arthur, in one sense, were unimportant.

It was this feeling... the feeling of fingers between fingers—of Merlin's cheeks warm from Arthur's breath—that finally eased the nervousness within Arthur he hadn't realized he had.

He will win.


End file.
